Carey's house in London. It was addressed to her. When the
parson opened it he found a dozen photographs of Mrs. Carey. They showed
the head and shoulders only, and her hair was more plainly done than
usual, low on the forehead, which gave her an unusual look; the face was
thin and worn, but no illness could impair the beauty of her features.
There was in the large dark eyes a sadness which Philip did not remember.
The first sight of the dead woman gave Mr. Carey a little shock, but this
was quickly followed by perplexity. The photographs seemed quite recent,
and he could not imagine who had ordered them.
"D'you know anything about these, Philip?" he asked.
"I remember mamma said she'd been taken," he answered. "Miss Watkin
scolded her.... She said: I wanted the boy to have something to remember
me by when he grows up."
Mr. Carey looked at Philip for an instant. The child spoke in a clear
treble. He recalled the words, but they meant nothing to him.
"You'd better take one of the photographs and keep it in your room," said
Mr. Carey. "I'll put the others away."
He sent one to Miss Watkin, and she wrote and explained how they came to
be taken.
One day Mrs. Carey was lying in bed, but she was feeling a little better
than usual, and the doctor in the morning had seemed hopeful; Emma had
taken the child out, and the maids were downstairs in the basement:
suddenly Mrs.
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